


A Preliminary Study of the History of Tol Himling

by JazTheBard, maglor_still_lives



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon as History, Friendship, Gen, Graduate School, Himring, In-Universe Historical Scholarship, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Pseudo-History, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives
Summary: Three graduate students of the University of Arnor at Lindon are bored. So very, very bored. Of course they decide to take a boat out to Tol Himling to see if they can find anything interesting, despite the fact that any researcher to have set foot on the island has been recorded as having a mental breakdown and never returning.They weren't exactlyexpectingto be able to explore it, but they certainly didn't expect what they found there.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë (mentioned), Maglor | Makalaurë & Original Character(s), Original Character & Original Character
Comments: 44
Kudos: 114
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, some of that sweet sweet finwean goodness





	A Preliminary Study of the History of Tol Himling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maglor_still_lives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/gifts).



> for the wonderful maglor_still_lives who did the cool art you'll see in the story!!!
> 
> this is my first time participating in a fandom event but it was super fun, and i hope you enjoy the story and the art!!
> 
> the art can be found [here](https://www.deviantart.com/loudlyinnerkingdom/art/Himring-852786932?ga_submit_new=10%3A1598080982)
> 
> full disclosure, i have no idea how grad school works and all the universities except rivendell are named like the university of california system

It was Háryth who brought it up, as always.

When she came into the dining hall of the University of Arnor at Lindon, humming merrily, her friends were understandably nervous. When she slammed a map down on their shared table, upsetting Marja's coffee, they were well on their way to terrified.

"We need to go here!" cried Háryth, daughter of Maetwen, a classics graduate student from Edoras. She jabbed at a place on the map.

Cornel Hayward, a hobbit archaeology grad student from the Northfarthing and Háryth's long-suffering suitemate, craned their neck to see what she was pointing at. When they saw it, they paled. " _Tol Himling?_ Are you kidding me? You know what happens to every person who sets foot on that island!"

"But supposedly it has an old fortress on it that nobody knows anything about!" said Háryth. "We owe it to ourselves to check it out."

Marja, daughter of Yrsa, a dwarf from Aglarond working towards a higher degree in history and likewise a suitemate of Cornel and Háryth, sighed. "Hár, honey, every historian _dreams_ of going to Tol Himling. But without fail, every single one bursts into tears upon making landfall."

Cornel nodded. "They start going on about how they feel the 'weight of millennia crashing down upon them' and some other needlessly poetic phrases. None of us need that added stress."

"Come on, we have a long weekend coming up. We can head over, rent a boat, and go check it out, it'll be fun! And it's not like we all don't have depression already."

Well, she wasn't wrong.

"Do you even know how boats work?" said Cornel, desperately trying to keep their friends from doing something so stupid.

Háryth gasped in mock offense. "In theory, yes! You wouldn't believe the number of boat-related legends we have to study, I once started a fistfight over 'The Song of Eärendil' and its descriptions' deviations from what we know of historical shipbuilding!"

"She did do that, I was there," said Marja. "The discussion was supposed to be on why so many of our sources for elven boats say they're shaped like swans. Someone tried to use that song as a reference and she punched him; it's a secondary source at best, and rife with poetic license."

All three shuddered at the thought of the dreaded _artistic liberties._

"But this is a modern boat, not a historical possibly-swan-shaped one. I don't think you can sail that," said Cornel.

"Oh, I can," said Marja.

Her companions looked at her in shock.

She shrugged. "Exchange year at a high school in Ithilien. Long-standing program between them and Aglarond. They taught me boating over by Cair Andros, and there's a city tradition of sailing to Pelargir -- whatever, the point is I can do it."

Háryth squealed and hugged her. “This is going to be so fun! The three of us, going on an adventure, can you imagine?”

Cornel said, “I don’t recall agreeing to this.”

The girls gave them a look.

They sighed. “If there are really ruins there, I suppose you’ll need someone to tell you how to keep from damaging them. Fine, I’m in.”

* * *

Just over a week later, they headed up north to take a rental boat out.

As usual, Tol Himling was shrouded in thick fog. It only cleared very rarely, and those infrequent moments of visibility were the only reason anyone knew there were ruins on the island.

The sailing was tricky in the mist, but the island was not too far from the mainland, and Marja had not exaggerated her skills in the least (Háryth and Cornel were unsurprised, she never claimed to be able to do something she wasn’t entirely confident in).

Soon enough, they came to Tol Himling itself, where the fog thinned out and they could see the old, crumbling fortress with its towers rising out of the mist. All three of them found themselves holding their breath as if waiting for something.

Háryth didn’t notice how close they were getting until the boat gently bumped up against something and Marja said, “Here we are, then. I’ll drop the anchor here and we can get off.” She bustled off to do so.

Cornel walked up beside Háryth. “Well, here we are,” they said. “This was your idea, so you can go first.”

Háryth braced herself and stepped onto Tol Himling.

And didn’t immediately start crying. Strange.

She could sort of notice what the other researchers had called “the weight of millennia,” to an extent, but mostly the place just felt sad and lonely.

 _This isn’t so bad,_ she thought. _It’s not sunshine and rainbows, but hardly debilitating._

Aloud, she called, “It’s fine over here! A little sad, but you’ll be fine, come on!”

Marja and Cornel gave each other a glance that perfectly communicated, _You know, I’m not even surprised. If anyone could step on this island unscathed, it’d be her._

They went after their brave and reckless roommate onto the shore.

A shudder ran through Marja as she set foot on the island. The past hung heavy over this place; she could almost hear the stones singing their histories.

Cornel followed. On the mainland, it was late spring, but the ground of the island was cold as ice. They nearly forgot what summer was in the face of the bleak land they stood on.

But all three of them pulled through.

“That was… unpleasant,” said Marja. “I see why people don’t like it here. But I’m good to continue if you both are.”

Cornel nodded. “Fine by me, but I want to sketch the layout of this place, as practice, so I’ll need to set up my drafting tools.” They did so while Háryth bounced in place impatiently.

“Come on!” she cried when she could not wait any longer. “I want to look at the ruin.”

“No teasing for bringing my archaeology stuff? Who are you and what have you done with Hár?” said Cornel.

Háryth blushed and pulled out a notebook and Quenya dictionary guiltily. “I brought my gear too.”

“We really are three of a kind!” Marja laughed as she revealed her own notebook and a guide to historical architecture.

Cornel finished their setup and said, “I’m ready. But we have to go slowly, in case there are enchantments meant to stop intruders, and--”

“And do not touch anything, and watch our step, and if we sense any kind of magic, run,” said Marja.

Cornel grinned. “See, living with me has its upsides. An introduction to behavior at historical sites, for one. And there is a _lot_ of magic on this island, which is probably why the fortress is still standing, even though it’s so old that no one really knows what it is.”

“Is any of it going to hurt us?” asked Marja. She was no magician; she never had cause to be. Archaeologists like Cornel, however, did, and Háryth, as a classics student, had studied a great deal of the theory.

“No,” said Cornel, shaking their head. “Maybe there was something harmful before, but it’s gone now. The only enchantment left is preservation.” They were familiar with that kind of spell, having often worked with fragile artifacts that, but for magic, would already be dust. “We can go in if we’re careful, but I want to make a floorplan of this place if I can.”

So the three students made their way up the slope of the shore as the abandoned stronghold loomed over them.

“Look up there!” said Háryth, pointing to the top of what (presumably) used to be the main gate. “There’s some tengwar carved in. It’s an older form, but I think I can read it.” She pulled out her notebook and a pencil, and stood on tiptoe, craning to see as she copied it down.

“This place must’ve been built for some very tall people,” Marja observed. Háryth was tall, even by Mannish standards, standing at right about six feet, but even the smaller doorways they had seen leading into the fortress were at least eight and a half feet tall. It appeared that, like on many of their previous exploits, Háryth would need to lift Cornel to get them places (and possibly Marja as well, but she hoped not).

Háryth looked at her notebook, mouthing the words, before saying, “It says ‘The Fortress of Himring.’ That must be what it’s called.”

“And the island is Tol Himling now. I’m honestly surprised the name hasn’t changed _more_ over the years,” said Cornel with a shrug. “But it looks safe to go in.”

They entered the courtyard and found, instead of an empty, untouched ruin, a set of stones.

Eight engraved flagstones -- more like plaques, really -- were set into the ground and inscribed with elegant tengwar, and a single standing stone, also written upon, watched over them.

“What the hell are these?” said Marja. “They’re clearly newer than the fortress, and it’s a different kind of stone.”

“You took _one_ geology class, I don’t think you’re an expert,” said Cornel.

“It’s a completely different color!”

“Yeah, Cornel, it’s a completely different color, don’t be stupid,” said Háryth, barely paying attention as she edged closer to the stones. "I want to take a wax rubbing of these so I can translate them later. Will touching them hurt me?"

Cornel rolled their eyes. "Doesn't look like it. Here's some paper and colored wax."

"Don't forget to write down which is which," said Marja.

Háryth hummed in affirmation.

Cornel went over to examine the stones as well. "Wait a moment," they said. "These two, here -- they're newer than the other six. And the standing stone is significantly newer than any of them."

Háryth looked between them. "Different handwriting, too. The newer ones match the standing stone, though." She wrote that down and continued her work.

Marja peered at the stone nearest her and drew out her notebook. "Look at this sigil," she said as she began to sketch. "It looks a lot like that star you see all over Gondor. And the University of Rivendell. Maybe this is where it came from?"

"I thought the Gondorian star was originally a Númenórean thing," said Cornel. "This is… really far from where Númenor was."

Háryth said, "They have a point. But URiv used to be an elvish town, maybe it's related to this place."

"The architecture is pretty different, but you might be right. These stars are rayed, and the Gondorian star isn't, but the URiv one is," mused Marja. "I'm going to walk around and sketch anything I might be able to identify this place with. I'll stay within earshot."

"I want to draw the floorplan," said Cornel, "and Hár, I assume you'll be looking for any more samples of writing, so why don't we meet back here in two hours?"

There were nods all around, and the three friends split up.

* * *

They reconvened two and a half hours later, as every member of the trio had lost track of time, to share their findings.

"That star sigil is stamped on everything in sight," said Marja. "The architecture looks early Second Age at the latest, probably pre-flood First. This island isn't a great place for a fortress, but before the flood of Beleriand, it was probably strategically located up on a hill."

Háryth went next. "I found more writing and inscriptions, and some graffiti. These stones we found are probably graves. I'll have to do translations back on campus; this dictionary isn't up to it."

Cornel coughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of their neck. "I'm pretty sure I found a palantír."

The women stared open-mouthed at them.

“I didn’t _touch_ anything,” they said defensively. “It was on the floor, someone probably dropped it while they were abandoning the place. But we should probably wrap it up and bring it back to the university.”

“This might as well happen,” said Marja, throwing her hands in the air in a gesture of giving up. “Fine, let’s wrap it up in anything we have that won’t damage it.”

“You know, we should do a project on this! Just think, we’re the first people to actually explore the island in millennia. There could be a whole thesis on those graves alone,” said Háryth.

“You’re sure they’re graves?” Marja asked while Cornel went off to get the supposed palantír.

Háryth started flapping her hands and gesticulating wildly as she spoke, excited to talk about what she had found. “Almost entirely! There are ranges of numbers on them, probably dates, and some of them end with the same number -- three matching, then two matching. They all start with a larger number than they end with, so there was some cross-age stuff going on, and one of them has no death date, probably for someone who disappeared. That’s one of the two newer memorial stones. The other new one has a significantly higher number for the death year.”

Cornel returned shortly. “I’ve got it here,” they said, gesturing towards a bag they were carrying, “and I think we ought to get back soon. It looks like it’s going to rain.”

They headed back to the ship.

* * *

Back at UAL, the trio arranged a joint meeting with their advisors.

“We want to do a thesis on the Graves of Tol Himling,” said Háryth, taking the lead as usual.

“What the _fuck,_ Háryth? What are those?” said her advisor.

Cornel jumped in. “We went to go look at Tol Himling over the weekend, and for some reason we actually made it onto the island. There were a bunch of graves in the courtyard of the fortress. Hang on, I made a map of the place--” They fumbled through a folder of sketches for it. “Here!”

“That’s what you’re leading with? Really?” said Marja, while their advisors were still mute with disbelief. “Cornel found something that we’re pretty sure is a palantír. Háryth, show them.”

Háryth obediently pulled the seeing-stone from her bag and unwrapped it.

The advisors stared at it.

"Fine," said Cornel's advisor. "I think we can approve your interdisciplinary thesis based on this. You three had better start researching."

* * *

Háryth glared at the grave rubbings scattered on her table in the library.

"What's wrong, hon?" said Marja, concerned, looking up from a book on elven heraldry.

Háryth groaned. "These are just _really old_ tengwar, and it's giving me a headache to transliterate them into modern letters. It doesn't help that these people all had so many damn names. Actually translating the little inscriptions is easy by comparison, at least it's the standard form of Quenya."

"Can I see what you have so far?"

"Sure. I started at the northern grave and went clockwise. The second and eighth are the newer ones."

Marja looked. Despite her complaining, she had managed to finish the first four graves. The first one read:

> _Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion_
> 
> _Years of the Trees 1270 - First Age 587_

And then, in smaller text on the rubbing but the same size in Háryth's writing:

> _Beloved father and uncle._
> 
> _May he find peace at last._

Marja gave a low whistle. "That is one old elf."

"You're telling me? They're all like that. All of them were apparently born in the Years of the Trees, which some people in the department are pretty sure were a myth, and all but the ones named in the newer graves died in the late First Age."

"What about the one with no death date?"

In answer, Háryth handed her another piece of paper.

> _Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion_
> 
> _Years of the Trees 1289 - Unknown_
> 
> _Last seen Second Age 32._
> 
> _Beloved father and uncle._
> 
> _May he return to us._

"That one's just depressing," said Marja. "Whoever put the stone up for him might still be waiting."

"There might be an explanation on the standing stone, but it's so long. I'm translating that last. Anyway, most of the memorial stones just say 'Beloved uncle, may he be forgiven,' the words are the same. I'm pretty sure the first seven are brothers or something."

"Not the eighth?"

"Different patronymic."

"I can start looking the names up, if you like," Marja offered. "This book is just plain unhelpful. It's really just Sindarin heraldry, despite the title, so it isn't gonna have what we need."

"Is this your way of procrastinating on figuring out the architectural style?"

"...Maybe."

Háryth's focus left her work, and she looked around for the first time in a few hours. "Wait, where's Cornel?"

"Trying to figure out how to use the palantír, I think. They went off into the stacks where the transcriptions and translations of the really old stuff is."

"Is using the thing even safe?"

"Probably not, but that's why they're doing research."

Háryth hummed. "What do you have so far?"

"Well, the fortress is definitely pre-flood," said Marja with a sigh. "And clearly Noldorin, but we knew that from the Quenya. But it has none of the blending of styles you see here in Lindon, so it's probably early First Age, or just, like, _really_ Noldorin. Or both."

"And the star symbol?"

"Well, it sure isn't in _this_ book," said Marja with a glare at the offending tome. "It's obliquely referenced once or twice, but the author assumes you know what it is already. I guess this is what I get for reading accounts from the time period, but they're usually more detailed than later secondary and tertiary sources."

Háryth grinned. "If all else fails, go to URiv and make them explain their decor choices. Those guys never pass up the chance to tell people the history of the place."

"How about I _don't_ do that, and instead I start looking these people up? The name on the second grave sounds familiar."

"Maybe from the genealogy stacks? We did all spend a weekend in there for that History of Names class."

"That might be it! Thanks, Hár." Marja hopped onto a stepstool to press a kiss to Háryth's cheek and scurried off.

* * *

Cornel groaned.

None of these manuscripts held any information on the use of palantíri except that the user must be strong-willed. Most were cautionary tales about people in the late Third Age who had gone crazy or evil after using them, which... well, it did make them cautious, but they really wanted to use the damn thing.

Some of these descriptions indicated that a palantír could light up. Could they get it to do that? Perhaps if they could get it to turn on, it would explain its own use.

They could only hope.

Maybe there was a password of some kind? Ugh, if there was, it'd be long lost and probably in an archaic form of already-ancient Quenya. Maybe even the kind that used "s" in place of "þ," which had once nearly given Háryth an apoplexy.

The only thing the sources told him was that the palantír required physical contact, so Cornel would have to touch it. They weren't sure if it would work with gloves.

Simply placing a gloved finger on it and saying "Turn on, please" in Westron had not worked, and only Elvish words Cornel knew were scientific terms.

They _really_ didn't want to bother Háryth or Marja for translations of possible commands right now. They both could be very intense while working.

Cornel sighed and went to get a language dictionary. They'd start with Sindarin.

* * *

It _was_ the genealogy section!

There was a book on the lineage of the kings of Gondor and Arnor from their founding to the present, and it had been notable in that it also gave the lineage of the rulers' spouses, even those who were not particularly high-born.

There it was.

King Elessar I of the Reunited Kingdom had a complex family tree, but one that was well-documented. The scholarly debates were about Queen Arwen I, and not because she was an elf.

The thing was that they didn't know who her grandparents were.

Her mother was Lady Celebrían, daughter of Princess Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Not much of Celeborn's family tree was known, but it presumably existed, and Galadriel had reportedly taken great pride in hetty descent, so that side of the family was easy enough.

But her father was Elrond Peredhel (title unknown), and he had several possible fathers.

Arwen I had never confirmed or denied any version of her father's parentage, but the current accepted theory was... aha. Maglor, son of Fëanor.

Marja was no expert on Sindarinization of names, but that sounded very much like some of the names on the second grave. One of the other theories listed here was his elder brother Maedhros -- the first grave, maybe?

Oh, Háryth would love this. Queen Arwen I had apparently been her historical crush since she was fifteen, as the queen had been the one to revitalize the learning of Quenya by copying and writing countless treatises on the language during her reign.

And now they'd gone and found the graves of two of her possible ancestors.

(Oh, Marja knew who the Sons of Fëanor were, in an abstract academic sense. It simply wasn't really her _style_ to obsess over the poetry and emotion of it all.)

But this gave her a hint of where to look for that symbol: on the heraldry of Fëanor and of Elrond.

* * *

Háryth hardly noticed that she'd finished the translation of the standing stone until she looked over for the next phrase of Quenya and found there wasn't one.

She'd already finished with the graves themselves, and figured out that they were the descendants of Fëanor, or at least all the descendants of Fëanor born in the Undying Lands.

The text on the standing stone read as follows, switching between Quenya and Sindarin names though the rest of the words were all standard Quenya:

> _"This message written by Elrond, who would call himself son of Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë, Third Age 3021._
> 
> _Here have my brother Elros, my cousin Celebrimbor, and I made memorials to our family, who shall never return to us. Despite what they have done, we mourn them, and they would not be given any graves if we did not make them._
> 
> _I myself made the markers for Celebrimbor and Maglor, for Elros and Celebrimbor had perished._
> 
> _There is no marker here for Elros, or for myself as I sail West, as we are not sons of Maedhros and Maglor by blood, and though we loved them, they left us. I shall not be so disrespectful as to place our memorial stones beside those who would no longer claim us as their own. This is not our place."_

And here there was a dividing line, and the script continued:

> _"To Maglor, should he ever read this:_
> 
> _I am sorry._
> 
> _Sorry that I never found you, sorry that I looked when you desired not to be found, sorry for whatever I did that caused you to choose to never return, that caused our other father to choose death over raising us. I have done my best to right things._
> 
> _I know not if you live still, but I gave you a grave after Celebrimbor's death. If you would not return for him you will not return at all._
> 
> _I hope you have found peace and happiness in your wanderings. Perhaps you have had children of your own who are not us, children you could love._
> 
> _But here is what I wished to tell you: the way is open, and you may return home to Aman. I am sure your mother misses you._
> 
> _Farewell, father."_

Háryth's heart broke.

Oh, this was tragic! So many of the old stories were, of course, but this was not one she'd heard before. It confirmed two theories of Elrond Peredhel's parentage, though.

...And no one ever did find out what had happened to Maglor Fëanorion.

Marja and Cornel came by with some iced tea to check on her.

"Did you finish the translation?" Cornel asked, climbing onto a chair and casually slinging an arm over her shoulder.

Háryth said, "Yes, it's very sad. It's a message for the person whose grave has no death date, his son begging him to come home. Did you make any progress?"

"It was the fortress of Maedhros," said Marja. "It's marked with his variation of the star sigil, which belonged to Fëanor. He and Maglor are both possible grandfathers of Arwen I." She was not disappointed by Háryth's reaction.

"I know, isn't it amazing? According to this stone, she's the granddaughter of _both_ of them, by adoption," Háryth said, grinning uncontrollably. "Cornel?"

They groaned. "A bunch of completely useless descriptions and cautions. C'mon, I need your help to activate the palantír. There's a treatise in really old Gondorian Sindarin and you know I can't read that."

"And they've promised us both pastries from the coffeeshop because they can't _pronounce_ it either, but I can," Marja added with a smile, poking Cornel.

Háryth let herself be dragged off by the promise of one of her favorite lemon scones.

* * *

"Okay," said Cornel, uncovering the palantír. "Here's the damn rock, the bane of my existence, and here's the transcription of the document."

Háryth took the copy of the treatise and began to read. "It says you do have to touch it, so you were on the right track. There's also a password, which is written here in Quenya, and... hold on, let me translate that." She paused, mouthing the words. "Um, 'grant me thy sight.' Not _exactly_ that, but it's not too far off; it's not a complicated phrase. Theoretically it'll work in any language, or if you just think it really hard

"Mind writing that password out for me?" asked Marja.

Háryth did so.

Marja looked it over. "I can pronounce that. Do you want to try now, Cornel?"

The hobbit in question nodded excitedly. "Absolutely! Here's some gloves, nobody wants fingerprints on the palantír," they said.

The three friends carefully placed their hands on the seeing-stone, and Marja spoke slowly and clearly.

"Á antaninna centya."

 _Show me Himring,_ thought Cornel.

* * *

_A high, cold hilltop, looking ever northward to a great shadow as a cornerstone was laid down._

_A red-haired elf, eyes blazing bright, standing defiantly upon the battlements._

_Seven elves embracing._

_A fiery battle that left scorch marks on the stone, the hill and its fortress standing strong as ever as if to spite its attacker._

_Hope slowly leaching out, turning the stronghold, once bright and resolute, into a cold and dismal fastness of ice._

_Another battle, this one fiercer, and the red-haired elf broken. The fortress breached and abandoned, only yet standing by the grace of the protections woven on it._

_(Three of the seven elves fell.)_

_(Two of the seven elves fell.)_

_(One of the seven elves fell, and fell, and fell, his red hair blending in with the fire.)_

_(One of the seven elves looked long and hard at the ocean and turned his back.)_

_The waters rushing in, leaving the hill an island._

_Three figures placing the first six graves._

_One figure placing the last two graves._

_Years and years and years passing, seasons changing and millennia turning by, and the fortress deteriorating, but never, never falling._

_One figure placing the standing stone and looking west._

_A song on the wind, the mists closing in, the isle mourning._

_Time, and time, and time._

_And suddenly three figures walking through the gates with curiosity in their hearts instead of fear, the seeing-stone taken up by a pair of small hands and brought somewhere new._

_And somewhere, on an unidentifiable beach, the seventh elf, still singing._

* * *

Marja gasped as she and her friends were jolted back to reality. As one, they snatched up their notebooks and began transcribing the vision.

As she scribbled, Háryth said, "I think he's still alive. The one the message is for, Maglor."

"We ought to find him," said Marja. "It'd be cruel to leave him wandering if there's a way for him to go home." She looked at Cornel. "This is the part where you talk us out of it," she prompted.

They shrugged. "I don't think I will. He needs to know, and just think what he'll be able to tell us about the Elder Days!"

"Road trip?" said Háryth.

"Road trip!" Cornel and Marja chorused.

* * *

"Do you think they'll let us bring the palantír with us?" mused Cornel. "We might need it to find him."

"It's worth asking," said Háryth. "But it's going in your bag, because all these books in mine are essential. _The Dictionary of Standard Quenya_ is obviously key, and I'll need _Ancient Sindarin Dialects_ and probably _The Adûnaic Language,_ too. Should I bring a book on Taliska?" Her bag was already worryingly full.

"You don't need the book on Adûnaic, you're fine," said Marja. "Save room for writing supplies. We do actually have to write a thesis on this trip, you know."

"Not all of us can just look up the history of that symbol at URiv! Anything I find I'll have to translate, and when you find some old document you'll come to me--"

"Be fair, if we manage to find the guy, you'll have a new primary source."

Háryth stopped in midsentence. "All right, I guess you have a point."

"Anyway, one of the people who placed the graves was the founder of Númenor," said Cornel, carefully packing up the maps they had made. "Adûnaic wasn't the official language until way later, so I don't think you'll need that book."

"But--"

"Hár."

"Fine."

"Now, do we actually have a plan on where to go?" asked Marja.

"All good road trips start at URiv," said Cornel. "But after that I was thinking UGMT? Minas Tirith is supposed to have the best historical library in the University of Gondor system; I'd be surprised if we _couldn't_ find anything there."

"And if that doesn't give us a hint, start beachcombing?" said Háryth.

"I was going to say 'try UGDA' but that works too. Dol Amroth is supposedly a pretty good beach town, to be fair."

Marja said, "Now, are either of you going to actually pack the writing supplies?"

* * *

"Hey, did you notice that the fancy stars on the top of each of the graves are different?" said Cornel, flicking through Háryth's grave rubbings.

"Wait, really? Let me see that," said Marja, grabbing the papers from them. "They _are_ slightly different! The simplified ones are all the same. Let me go get a heraldry book, I've seen variations like these before."

Marja was unfamiliar with the University of Rivendell library, but everything was clearly labeled in multiple languages, so she found what she was looking for.

Pointing at a picture, she said, "These are personal variations on a family sigil. I think these bits here indicate an eldest child, you see? They're found on the standard fancy sigil and the first grave, and on -- where is it -- this!" She turned to a picture of Finrod's sigil (the design of which had survived somehow).

Háryth realized what this meant. "This is going to be such a contribution to historical symbolism and heraldry! You dictate, Cornel can take notes."

"Hold on a second--"

Marja beamed. "Good thing I sketched everything in the fortress! I'll have a ton of samples."

"I never said I was gonna help--"

"Shh, Cornel. I need to look at some records and stuff from before URiv was a school, I have an idea," Háryth said.

"And what might that be?" said Cornel.

"There needs to be a new grave and a new memorial, doesn't there? For the people who put them there but didn't give themselves any? I had better start looking up dates."

Cornel threw their hands in the air in exasperation. "Who's going to make the graves? You're not a stoneworker!"

"I am, though. They make you learn when you're a dwarf," said Marja. "Cornel, when I'm done dictating, be a dear and figure out what kind of rock that was."

"It was pale gray slate," Cornel muttered. "Very standard, not hard to find."

"Perfect! Now get something to write with, I need you to take notes."

* * *

It turned out that, by using the few other old heraldry sources existing, Marja was able to write a good number of pages on the symbols and patterns, and the notable artifacts from a single pass through the fortress alone made for a good chunk between her and Cornel.

Háryth, while not working on text for the new plaques, worked on connecting various historical events to the location, analyzing the text of the standing stone, and summarizing the history of those whose graves were on the island.

Soon enough, they had the beginnings of a thesis written.

But it wouldn't be complete unless they found Maglor.

And that was why, after two months road tripping all over Gondor and Arnor, and finally returning to UAL, the trio found themselves preparing to look into the palantír again.

"Okay, so we focus on seeing this guy in the present, and then try to make out whatever landmarks we can," Marja reviewed. "No looking at historical events; there will be time for that later. Everyone ready?"

Háryth and Cornel nodded, placing their hands on the stone.

"Á antaninna centya."

_A lone figure upon a beach, staring forlorn out to sea. Behind him the forbidding silhouette of--_

"Tol Himling!" cried Háryth, as she pulled them all out of the vision in shock. "He's right there!"

"All we have to do is bring him to the island," said Cornel. "After asking some questions, of course."

Marja grinned. "Get your notebooks! What are we waiting for?"

They gathered notebooks (and at least four writing implements each just in case) and ran off.

They reached the coast in record time, and took off their shoes (except Cornel, who never wore any) to start searching the beach.

A soft song in an elven tongue carried on the breeze, and Marja hurried towards it, dragging a frantically-translating Háryth along as Cornel followed.

When they saw the person that was... _probably_ Maglor Fëanorion, they cheered and sprinted at him.

* * *

Maglor heard a shout interrupt his singing.

When he turned to see the source, he was immediately tackled by three people and fell to his back on the sand.

By the time he got his bearings again, the three people (a Man, dwarf, and hobbit) had pulled out notebooks and started speaking over each other excitedly.

"Can you tell me about--"

"Can you explain the--"

"There's a lot of debate on the topic, can you clarify--"

"Wait, no, dumb question, instead could you tell me about--"

He could barely tell what they were saying.

"I'm sorry, but what is going on?" he asked when he finally managed to get a word in edgewise.

"Oh, sorry!" said the human. "We're students from UAL, and we were hoping to interview you, if that's alright."

"Um. Why?"

"We're doing a thesis on that island over there," said the hobbit, pointing to the scrap of land where Himring slowly crumbled. "Since you lived there a while, we figured you could help us."

Maglor spluttered. "How -- why -- how do you know I lived there?"

"For goodness's sake, we do own history books," said the dwarf, rolling her eyes. "Can we interview you or not?"

"...I suppose so?"

The deluge of questions began again.

They asked him about everything -- agriculture, battles, familial relationships, the evolution of diplomatic situations, all centered in the now-distant First Age. It took hours.

During a lull in the conversation after filling up two entire mini notebooks, the dwarf -- Marja, he learned -- said, "Oh, I almost forgot! You need to see the island; someone left a message there!"

"And you need my help to translate it or something?" Maglor guessed.

Háryth shook her head and said, in halting but accurate Fëanorian Quenya, "No, I can read it well enough, but you really should see it."

Maglor found himself unable to respond. Of course some people studied Quenya still, if only to translate old things, but to speak _that_ dialect... well. Simply put, it didn't make sense.

But practically all humans nowadays were descendants of Elros, and he had been taught the language by Maedhros, and aside from the Númenóreans the tongue was hardly used at all in Middle-Earth after the First Age. And with the elves (aside from him) gone, it was entirely possible that no other dialect had survived in record.

If Maglor thought about it, the whole thing was rather funny, but in the way that made his heart hurt even after so long alone.

"Do you have a way to get there?" he said instead of any of the number of things swirling around his mind.

"We can go get a boat for the day," said Cornel with a shrug.

With that, the three of them dragged him off.

* * *

It took a bit of doing to cajole Maglor into the boat (unsurprisingly, in Háryth's opinion), but Marja kept insisting that he had to see something on the island in person, and he caved.

The short voyage was tense, and they were all glad to reach Tol Himling and disembark.

Maglor looked ready to weep as they approached the gate. "My brother's fortress," he murmured, reaching out a hand to brush the stone. "I called it home, once."

"What you need to see is in the courtyard," said Cornel.

Marja patted Maglor's leg in comfort. "It might be sad, but I think you will feel better for having seen it."

They came to the courtyard, and Maglor looked around, puzzled. This was not what it was supposed to look like. Then his eyes lighted upon one of the stones set on the ground in a circle.

It was a gravestone for Caranthir.

He turned frantically, looking at the other stones. Graves, all of them, for all his brothers, and little Celebrimbor, and even himself, though he was not dead--

"Who did this?" he said in a whisper. "Who would do my family such a kindness, after everything? Who would mourn us, after Celebrimbor was killed?"

Háryth pointed silently at the standing stone in the center.

Maglor read the first line of its inscription and fell to his knees.

> _"This message written by Elrond, who would call himself son of Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë, Third Age 3021."_

The phrasing was strange, and yet Maglor could not find it in himself to care. That Elrond would openly name himself to be his son was a source of unending wonder.

These grave markers were made by him, and Elros too, and even Celebrimbor, who had renounced them all. It almost didn't seem real.

> _"There is no marker here for Elros, or for myself as I sail West, as we are not sons of Maedhros and Maglor by blood, and though we loved them, they left us. I shall not be so disrespectful as to place our memorial stones beside those who would no longer claim us as their own. This is not our place."_

No, that couldn't be right. Elrond and Elros had been the lights of his life; surely they knew that. Maglor never would have expected them to include themselves as part of the family, of course, but that was because he had thought they did not want to be, not because they were unwelcome.

But next there was text addressed to him.

> _"To Maglor, should he ever read this:_
> 
> _I am sorry._
> 
> _Sorry that I never found you, sorry that I looked when you desired not to be found, sorry for whatever I did that caused you to choose to never return, that caused our other father to choose death over raising us. I have done my best to right things."_

Maglor's heart broke.

Had his sons really felt so unloved? Had they done such a great kindness, giving these memorials, out of guilt for some imagined wrongdoing that they thought had caused him to abandon them? It was Maglor's own guilty conscience, and Maedhros's too, that had led to their choices, and the two of them knew for fact their crimes.

But if they had only said goodbye -- only told the twins one last time that they were loved--

> _"I know not if you live still, but I gave you a grave after Celebrimbor's death. If you would not return for him you will not return at all."_

He knew he had given the twins good cause to doubt his love, and yet it hurt that Elrond could think so little of himself. Maglor had never considered coming back to be an option; had he but known that a single person in Arda actually wished for his presence he would have returned and never left again.

> _"I hope you have found peace and happiness in your wanderings. Perhaps you have had children of your own who are not us, children you could love._
> 
> _But here is what I wished to tell you: the way is open, and you may return home to Aman. I am sure your mother misses you._
> 
> _Farewell, father."_

Maglor wept.

He had, of course, found neither peace nor happiness in the past millennia, for that had not been the point of his wandering exile. The point had been to keep himself from hurting anyone again, to spend eternity alone and repenting. He had thought that to be clear, and yet here was his son, wishing him joy amidst his own pain and resignation to possibly having been replaced.

But now, at long last, he could return home.

_Home._

He had lived in Middle-Earth for many times the length of the years he had spent in Aman, but he had never stopped missing the land of his birth. Of course, up until this moment, it had been only a distant dream without any real hope behind it, just another thing he had lost, but _now--_

He could go home again, and see his mother, and apologize to his son, and if he was lucky, make amends for all he had done. The thought of such happiness was almost too much to bear.

A cough came from behind him. He wiped his eyes and turned around to see the trio of students standing there awkwardly.

"Not to interrupt your dramatic moment," said Háryth, "but we do have some other good news for you."

Marja said, "We made -- well, _I_ made, these two did nothing -- plaques for your sons who put these here, so they can also be remembered. But this is a historical site, so we need the owner's permission to put them here."

"I did _all_ of the translations for it!"

"Technically the owner might actually be the King of Gondor and Arnor, but it's probably fine if we just ask you," added Cornel. "Also, if you need a boat to get to the Undying Lands, I'm not really sure how that works honestly, I'm pretty sure we can get you one. But Hár won't be making it, since we've already established she knows nothing about boats."

"Hey!"

"They're right, you know," said Marja, nodding sagely. "Just because boats feature inordinately in your area of study and you once got into a fistfight about it doesn't mean you can make or sail one."

Cornel grinned. "How does it go again? 'Her sails he wove of silver fair, of silver were her lanterns made--'" they sang before being cut off.

"I will murder you and make it look like an accident," said Háryth, without any real venom.

"The DIY club at the university owes me multiple favors," said Marja, sidestepping her friends' conversation. "I'm pretty sure they'll make a boat if I ask."

Maglor could do nothing but nod.

* * *

As it turned out, he could -- and had to -- do a lot more than that. For starters, help the students fact check their thesis and tell them what he knew. He also had to explain his existence to the president of the university, which was awkward, to say the least.

(However, Maglor was rather pleased with the fact that, over the centuries, he had become some sort of urban legend or cryptid in the minds of most of Middle-Earth.)

Marja was as good as her word, and after his part in the thesis writing was done, showed Maglor to the small boat she'd gotten built for him.

"People apparently bought the excuse that Hár needed it for historical reenactment purposes and was likely to crash it," she said. "It's all yours now."

Maglor had already cried so much in these past few months, not least when he had placed the memorials for his sons on either side of the standing stone. He wasn't going to start weeping again.

He started weeping again, and pulled Marja into an embrace. "Thank you," he said. "This means more to me than you could know."

She patted him on the back comfortingly.

Two weeks later, Maglor readied himself to set off, after a few sailing lessons from Marja and navigational help from Háryth. The boat was already stocked with homemade food from Cornel.

"It was nice meeting you," said Cornel, "and I'm glad we could help you out. Stay safe out there."

"I will," said Maglor with a smile, almost giddy at the thought of returning home at last.

"If you get lost and end up back here, we're not making you a new boat if you crash it," Marja warned. This was a lie, she absolutely would.

"And good luck!" cried Háryth in Quenya.

Maglor said, "Goodbye! And thank you!" and he sailed off into the West.

* * *

"We should check and see if he made it," said Háryth a month later, tired of editing the thesis.

Likewise wanting to procrastinate, her friends agreed, and they went off to use the palantír.

Marja spoke, the now-practiced words coming to her with ease. "Á antaninna centya."

_A shore, not empty but not crowded either, and a familiar ship pulling up. Onlookers gaping at Maglor in shock as he disembarked._

_Maglor speaking to people, one after another, the words inaudible but his expression impatient._

_A person recognizable only from his resemblance to the portraits of Queen Arwen I, walking alone in a garden, his head turning towards an unexpected noise._

_Recognition. A sob._

_An embrace._

Cornel cheered. "He made it!" They realized they were crying tears of joy, but made no move to hide it, instead hugging their friends with all their strength.

* * *

"Breathe, Háryth," said Marja.

Háryth paced back and forth outside the door where a committee was deciding if she would graduate or not. She had just finished her thesis defense, and now all that was left was waiting. Marja and Cornel's defenses were in a few days.

"I can't calm down!" Háryth hissed, trying not to disturb the committee. "I know we worked really hard at this, but what if it's not enough?"

"Then we'll rewrite it," said Cornel reasonably.

Háryth glared. She wasn't currently in a state where reason was helpful.

Tense minutes passed in the hallway as Háryth's pacing grew ever more frantic.

Finally, the door opened, and Háryth's advisor stepped through, the three students' heads immediately whipping towards the source of the sound.

The advisor smiled. "Congratulations, doctor."

Háryth covered her mouth with her hand in shock, but followed her advisor into the room where the committee applauded her.

"And after your friends have their defenses," said the committee head, "you should talk to the University Press and see about getting this published."

A while later, during a little celebration with ice cream, Cornel said, "So how does it feel, Doctor Háryth Maetwensdaughter?"

"Fantastic. You're going to love it when you're Doctor Hayward, I can promise you that." She turned to Marja. "And you'll make a wonderful Doctor Yrsasdottir."

"I think I will," said Marja with a grin. "And we're gonna get published! It's like a dream come true."

* * *

_A Preliminary Study of the History of Tol Himling_

_By Dr. Hayward, Dr. Maetwensdaughter, Dr. Yrsasdottir_

_Published by University of Arnor Press_

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!
> 
> please go check out the art linked in the top note, and go find maglor_still_lives on tumblr [here](https://maglor-still-lives.tumblr.com/)
> 
> i'm also on tumblr at @jaz-the-bard
> 
> please go show this incredible artist some love, and leave comments and kudos here if you like the fic!
> 
> In light of recent events: I do not consent to my own original ideas that appear in my fics being used without permission or without credit. If you are able to pick up ideas from my fic then you are certainly able to ask me for permission, and if you are going to publish, credit is REQUIRED.
> 
> This includes names such as elenyafinwë, aþelairë, and almatáru, as well as a number of other details and ideas that appear in my works.
> 
> If you are going to use my ideas for fic that excludes LGBTQ+ characters, for reasons religious or other, I do not give you permission to use them, even with credit.


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